You’d slipped out of Bruce’s room without a sound, your bare feet padding across the cold hardwood. The silk of your nightgown whispered against your thighs as you moved through the shadowed hallway, following the dim light that bled from somewhere downstairs.

The staircase curved down into a foyer that smelled of old wood and lemon polish. Portraits of stern-faced ancestors watched you pass, their painted eyes following your every step.

Then you heard it. Voices. Low and casual. The clink of silverware against porcelain.

The kitchen doors were slightly ajar. Warm golden light spilled through the crack.

You pushed one open, just an inch.

Four boys sat around a long wooden table. Different ages, different builds. But all of them had that same sharp alertness you’d seen in Bruce.

The youngest—dark hair, olive skin, maybe twelve—noticed you first. His hand froze halfway to his glass of orange juice.

Then the others turned.